Virgin Territory
by Rasial
Summary: Moriarty tilted his head, looking into his eyes and reading something there."Oh my." he chuckled, in a faux-scandalized tone. "That wasn't your first kiss, was it?" John investigates childhood trauma that explains Sherlock's aloof sexual identity. Mentions PTSD and sexual abuse. Features John/Sherlock and cameos by Microft and Scotland Yard. Loosely set after TGG. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

"You're not going to make Daddy _mad_ now, _are_ you, my dear?" Moriarty taunted Sherlock, whose hand was still starkly holding a gun on him. Moriarty glanced over his shoulder nonchalantly to where John, strapped in his bomb-vest, had red laser circles dancing over his forehead. Sherlock didn't lower his weapon, but they both knew he wouldn't fire it now. Moriarty smiled, and leaned in very close to Sherlock like he was going to whisper something terrifying in his ear, but at the last minute he grabbed Sherlock's pale face in both hands and French-kissed him. John spluttered as Sherlock offered no resistance, although he winced and cupped his hand to his face as Moriarty pulled back with a playful smile. Sherlock's lower lip was bleeding profusely. The psychopath had bitten him. John bristled and started forward.

"Uh-uh Johnny Boy, it wouldn't do to be jealous." Moriarty sing-songed. One red light darted to Sherlock's face and John became resolutely still.

Sherlock glared at the self-declared consultant criminal with more emotion than usual – grey eyes cold and wolf-like. Moriarty tilted his head, looking into them and reading something there."Oh my." he chuckled, in a faux-scandalized tone. "That wasn't your first kiss, was it?"

Sherlock, as he usually did when people alluded to his sexual life, said nothing.

Moriarty took this as confirmation and his voice dripped with condescension and glee. "Oh dear. Didn't mean to pop your cherry. And I bet you were saving it for someone special..." he shot a coy glance at John who was having difficulty concealing the surprise, wonder and loathing competing to be expressed by his face. Was the psychopath right? Sherlock continued his expressionless mask and his silence, staring at Moriarty, who appeared to be stalling for some reason. Sherlock waited for him to show his hand and make a move.

"Oh this is _interesting_." Moriarty looked Sherlock up and down, and then back at John. "This changes _everything_." he reached down and patted Sherlock's groin. Sherlock didn't move to stop him but shot him a dark look that Moriarty seemed to particularly enjoy.  
"Shame, I'd hoped I'd had more of an _effect_ on you." Moriarty smiled. "But there's plenty of time for that now...the real game is ON, SHERLOCK!" Moriarty suddenly yelled right in Sherlock's face.  
He shrugged and stepped back, taking back his usual soft voice. "It's on. And this man here..." Moriarty walked back to put two hands on John's shoulders "This man here? He's the stakes." he affectionately ruffled John's hair and began to back slowly out of the pool-house."See you, boys."

"Catch...you...later." was all Sherlock said in reply.  
A high pitched answer bounced back to him. "No you won't!"

The red circles disappeared and Sherlock lost no time dropping to his knees in front of John and tugging the bomb-vest off of him and skittering the hateful object as far across the chlorinated tiles as he could.

"I'm glad no one saw that little encounter, or you ripping my clothes off me." John joked weakly. "People might talk."

Sherlock eyes him cautiously, worried about the territory this offhand comment was leading to. "People do little else."

John leaned against the changerooms for support, and laughed. Once it became clear he wasn't going to ask Sherlock any probing questions, Sherlock looked him in the eye and chuckled too. "Are you alright?" he asked John.

"Oh, fine." he smiled.  
"That thing, you offered to do...it was...good. Thank you." Sherlock awkwardly patted the other man's shoulder, the added pressure almost knocking John off his adrenaline-weak legs. He put an arm around John until he was on his feet, and together the two of them staggered home.

When they got to 221 Baker Street, they sat on their porch and shook their heads, still smiling and guffawing with nervous energy from their surreal night.

John glanced up at Sherlock's swollen lip, which looked for all the world like a beestung pout. "Oh God," John-the-doctor berated himself "I completely forgot to look at that." he reached absentmindedly to tilt Sherlock's head into the light with his left hand and pull the injured lip forward with his right, but Sherlock flinched out of his hands, eyes pooled with liquid terror. The look only lasted for a moment but John was sure he'd seen it. Did Sherlock think John was going to kiss him or something?

"Bit tender." Sherlock mumbled by way of explanation and got up swiftly, climbing the stairs two at a time, leaving their door open. John watched the tail of his best friend's coat disappear, and thought back over what Moriarty had said at the pool. Had the crazy Irish criminal brought some raw nerve in Sherlock to the surface with his lewd comments? Moriarty clearly thoughts so and would use it relentlessly to his advantage. If John was going to protect Sherlock, he was going to have to get to the bottom of it.

Talking to Sherlock about anything personal was difficult at the best of times. It would be easier to broach the sensitive topic if John were armed with a little background information. He groaned. The only person he knew who shared Sherlock's past was someone he _really_ didn't want to ask…


	2. Chapter 2

Despite his reservations, John arranged to meet Mycroft at an empty tea-shop, probably cleared out by Mycroft for the purpose. The most dangerous man John would ever meet was folding up his umbrella from the morning drizzle with an alert, bemused expression.

"Hello John." he nodded and sat down after a brisk hand-shake. "What has my brother done this time?"

John felt distinctly uncomfortable, and wondered if there was any way he could get the information he wanted without betraying Sherlock's confidence. So he began gingerly.

"You've heard of Moriarty?"  
Mycroft's gaze didn't flicker. "Naturally."  
"Well, he's been digging into Sherlock's past, trying to use it against him." John said vaguely. "And the thing is, I don't know whether the blows are landing or glancing, because I know bugger all about his life before I moved into Baker Street."

Microft set his brow. John got the distinct impression that this line of questioning made him uncomfortable. "And my brother won't talk to you about it?"  
"It's awkward." was all John said, not wanting to admit that he hadn't really tried going to Sherlock first. He sighed. Microft probably knew that anyway.

"So what would you like to know?" Microft asked, with a pleasant demeanour which suggested he was going to be compliant.

John jumped straight in.

"Has, uh, Sherlock ever had a boyfriend or girlfriend?"  
"Not to my knowledge." Microft answered pleasantly. Which was the same as saying no, because Microft made it his business to know everything.  
"A crush... a fling...a snog? Any kind of warm-blooded, mammalian sexual experience at all?" John asked in disbelief.

Microft paused for a moment. "I can't speak to his internal experiences, of course" he began carefully "but I believe some of Sherlock's...reluctance...to participate in social mores and normative bonds stems from his perspective of our childhood."

John nodded, chewing on a scone with rapt attention.

Microft sighed, and broke eye contact for the first time since John had walked in. "As a child, I was closer to Mummy. As I was the elder sibling, I spent much of my time out with her attending social engagements. She's quite a commanding presence – Presidential Alumni of Lady Margaret's Hall, Social Secretary of her Women's Institute, that sort of thing." Microft said this with dismissive pride. "But Sherlock was quiet, withdrawn, and more like our Father. Father's favourite – although he was always desperate to get Mummy's attention instead and would often act out." Microft let their natural sibling rivalry burble to the surface without even looking a tiny bit embarrassed. He continued "Thus he got left at home, quite a bit, sometimes with only Father for company, sometimes with no one at all." Microft paused to take a sip of tea. John noticed that Microft obviously had less affection for Father as he was never abbreviated to "Daddy".

"Our Father was quite a stern man." Microft rejoined as though he could hear John's musing. "I didn't realise at the time – I thought Sherlock and Father had their little world as Mummy and I had ours – " here Microft looked directly at John and lowered the pitch of his voice "but when Father died, Sherlock was fifteen, and he said something at the funeral which caused me to re-evaluate that belief. Sherlock was crying – a rare display of emotion even then." John tried to imagine Sherlock as a teenager and came up blank. "I said a few comforting words and Sherlock turned to me, tears still in his eyes. He whispered: "I hated that man."

Mycroft sat back and sipped his tea. "He was always melodramatic of course, but he never spoke of our Father again – at least not to me, and he's still a bit distant from Mummy..."

John nodded thoughtfully. "So, er, you're actually the member of his family he's closest to?"

Microft smiled wanly. "A bit depressing, isn't it? Sherlock's always been...guarded about his little secrets." he said tiredly. John nodded and downed what was left of his tea. He needed to think. "Thanks, Microft." he said, clattering the cup into the saucer and standing to go.

Microft reached out suddenly and grasped his jacketed arm. "You will be...discreet about this, won't you John?" he smiled pleasantly, with a hint of something (panic, grief, a threat?) behind his eyes.

John turned back to him. "Look, all I want to do is make sure Moriarty isn't worming his way too far inside Sherlock's head. It's not like I'm going to _blog_ about this."

"Good, John. Good." was all Microft said.


	3. Chapter 3

Back at 221b Baker's street, John sat back on the porch where the problem had arisen last night. Sherlock had been painfully alone his whole childhood. Mother and brother distant, father stern and apparently much like Sherlock himself. John tried to imagine a child locked alone in a mansion with an older, broodier version of Sherlock, and felt a pang of empathy.

Sherlock had obviously had no one to model patterns of normal behaviour on, John decided. No wonder he preferred to observe and deduct. And if acting out was how he got his mother's attention, it would explain his generally repugnant behaviour at crime-scenes and his love of a dramatic entrance. John snorted to think of LeStrade as a stand-in for a mother-figure who he tried in equal parts to insult and impress. What did that make him, then, John wondered.

Pseudo-Dad?

He was also bothered by the scene described by Microft at the funeral. If he'd been a stern, cold, irate man John could understand the hate, but where did the terror in Sherlock's eyes come from the other night? Sherlock was barely ever frightened, whether he was being choked by Chinese assassins, challenged by poison-wielding psychopaths or even facing down Moriarty...

Of course – John could have smacked himself in the head for not seeing it earlier. All that risk-taking behaviour. His over-pronounced and talked-up ego, hiding a lack of self-worth. His need to be in control and his dislike of confrontation or change.

Sherlock had been abused. By his father.

John felt sick – suddenly so sick in the stomach about every time he'd let Donovan call Sherlock a freak, or every time any of them had needled him about his sexual preferences. The poor man had never had a lover or a friend to confide in, or even the protection of his mother or brother...

John gritted his teeth, fists clenched until the knuckles were white. Surely, Microft hadn't known.

He _had_ to pull himself together and talk to Sherlock about this. It's not like he'd be able to hide his realisation for long – and Sherlock was bound to be angrier if he figured out what John was thinking before he voiced it.

So he gritted his teeth, and decided just to be honest. Gentle, but..." _Oh god this was the most nerve-wracking thing he had ever done. And he'd had to tell soldiers in Afghanistan they were going to lose limbs. _

He climbed the stairs and found Sherlock slumped in his clothes on the sofa, idly plucking his violin. John was relieved that he was fully clothed – talking to him in his P.J.s would have seemed like an indecent attack. He needed the armour of his coat – his carefully crafted exterior.

"Sherlock?"

He didn't look up straight away, and when he did it was a foggy, confused look. "John, did you get the milk?"

"No." John said, sitting down gently into his armchair. Sherlock seemed to sense there was something up by the tone of his voice and cocked his head, bird-like.

"I was wondering – I was wondering whether we could talk about last night." John began.  
"What about it?" Sherlock asked in a deliberately monotone voice.  
"Well, the jibes that Moriarty made at you. And then that bit on the porch."  
"What 'bit on the porch'?" Sherlock asked, his voice laced with a tedium that was a little overdone. John sighed, looking at his friend wistfully. He was obviously not going to make this easy.

John began again.

"Moriarty said you'd never been kissed." Sherlock's face shuttered and he looked like he was about to say something vitriolic but John rushed over the top of him. "And on the porch last night when I went to examine your lip, for a split-second you thought I was going to kiss you." Sherlock's face was dark and inscrutable. _In for a penny, in for a pound_, John told himself. "And you didn't look offended or grossed out or any of the other usual reactions. You looked scared. Petrified, actually. And I don't recall seeing you look like that before, even facing down murderers."John added. "So I wanted to talk about that."

Sherlock was silent for a long moment. Finally, he said:

"Looking offended or grossed out are the usual reactions when you try to kiss someone?"

"What? Oh pfft, no. You know what I meant," John spluttered.  
"Spare me the indignity of your deductions…" Sherlock intoned almost regally over the top of John's lack of composure.  
"Stop it, Sherlock! Just stop it." John cut in, determined not to let this conversation get away from him. "I'm as uncomfortable having this conversation as you _clearly _are, but if this is something that Moriarty can use to throw you off your game, then it is important we talk about it."

"I see." Sherlock said, very softly and coldly, sit straight-backed on the far right of the sofa. "You're worried I'll cease to be high-functioning."

"No," John said impatiently "I'm worried about my best friend. He's going up against this sodding lunatic who's got a way of twisting everything he touches."

Sherlock softened a little. John took this moment to get up and sit beside him. The two men stared into space for a long time, until Sherlock finally said: "I _have_ been kissed, John."

There was something sinister about the way he said it. John looked up to meet the measured glare of the detective. Normally his eyes had a cold fire to them but right now they were blazing with that same terror he had seen the night before.  
"By someone who you trusted?" John tried to prompt, but Sherlock's mask became an ugly sneer and he gave a dry laugh.

"What does it matter who kissed me? Moriarty was wrong." Sherlock was trying with all his might to hold his gaze and shut the conversation down, but John couldn't stand it.

"Of course it bloody matters if it was your _father_!"

"Sherlock's irises became whiter than a magnesium flash. His pupils constricted with anger and hurt. "How the hell did you?! Mycroft." he spat out the name and strode to his feet. "But he didn't...oh, you _clever_ Doctor." He turned on John with such loathing. "You filled in the emotional gaps in the story that the _Iceman _was unable to discern. Well done_ you_. So we're talking about it." Sherlock raved, pacing and never looking quite at John. "Is this what you want? Details? You want to know that he told me I was beautiful? That he made me feel what I thought was _love_ for him? That when I got older and I wasn't quite so _malleable_, he used force and threats instead? He locked me in a box once, an old trunk in the attic – is _that_ the kind of information that you find psychologically relevant?" he panted like a wild animal. "Look at me John. Do you think _talking_ about it is making me any better?"

John was aghast. He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything Sherlock swept out of the sitting room and into his bedroom, slamming the door with a loud metallic click.

John hadn't even known the door locked. He sat, absorbing what his friend had said to him. The poor bastard. John's blood was coursing with adrenaline. He wanted so _badly_ to be able to reverse time, to go back and take care of him. To slug his awful father and even slap the smug smile off little Mycroft's face for being so grand a manipulator but so poor an empathizer.

He could only imagine Sherlock's wounded pride at being unmasked in John's presence. He could hear heavy breathing being smothered by a pillow. Sherlock was muffling the sound of his crying. John thought wildly about kicking down the door but he realised he'd invaded Sherlock's privacy enough for one afternoon. He sank back into the armchair. John closed his eyes, vividly imagined what he would do the moment Sherlock let him behind that door. He needed a plan this time...

So why were the images swamping his mind not so much of helping his friend regain his dignity, but of wiping the tears out of his eyes and kissing those tremulous lips?

His eyes flashed open. What kind of horrid git _was_ he? Thinking of taking advantage of him when he was so vulnerable and argh! Last time he had checked he was _not_ gay.

John cracked his knuckles. He couldn't afford to be processing his own strange reaction to these circumstances. He had to get his act together to be there for Sherlock.

He went to make some tea.


	4. Chapter 4

Much later, when it was well and truly evening and night had fallen, John served up two bowls of fried rice. He came out to the living room and turned on the light, but Sherlock was clearly still in his room.

He put down his own bowl on the coffee table and took the other to Sherlock's door and knocked.  
"Sherlock," he said loudly. "Dinner."

There was no reply for over a minute, and then suddenly the lock clicked and the door swung open into darkness.

"Can I come in?" asked John, proffering the bowl and spoon. Sherlock took it and shuffled back to his bed, seemingly indifferent to John's presence.

Sherlock's room was not nearly as messy as the general chaos of the living room. There were some prints of protein shapes under an electron microscope framed on the wall, a chestnut set of drawers, a low column of books and journals on the shelf beneath the window. John had been in there before, but for the first time he noticed that there was not a photo anywhere – nor a single personal item. Perhaps he was worried someone would read him all too carelessly if he left too many clues around.

"Shh John. You're thinking. It's loud." Sherlock said irritably. He sat the untouched food on his nightstand, and sat on the bed in his pyjamas and gown, looking a little bit lost.

John sat down on the bed too, turning on a lamp and scanning Sherlock's eyes curiously.

"You're on something." John said softly.  
"I needed to calm down." Sherlock said slowly, but still with a hint of distain. "Are you going to berate me for substance abuse now too?" he sounded...tired. Not his fake the-world-is-boring tired but the real thing.

"Not right now." John reached over to pat his hand, but Sherlock freaked out and pulled away.

"I'm sorry." John said gently.  
"It's not _voluntary_." Sherlock said. "I haven't been able to cope with being touched since Moriarty..."  
"kissed you, bit you and groped you, all the while calling himself your Daddy?" John finished. Sherlock nodded miserably.

"Do you think he knows?" John ventured.  
Sherlock shrugged. "He knows something. But if _you_ figured it out I guess I'm more obvious than I thought." John disregarded the barb. He longed to reach out and comfort the taller man, bent in on himself, but he didn't dare to. Sherlock suddenly clasped his gaze, eyes glistening with unshed tears. "It's like I look at someone I admire, someone I could feel passion for, and there _he_ is. It's _his_ lips I'm kissing." he turned away. "It makes me feel sick and I lose any..._desire_ I might have had."

"That's what happened last night." John said suddenly. "You didn't think_ I_ was going to kiss _you_, _you _were thinking about kissing _me_."

"Obviously." Sherlock sniffed. "Normally I'd feel some modicum of horror that you'd deduced that so easily but I don't really suppose your respect for me can plummet any further." he gave a wry laugh.

"God, Sherlock." John choked. "Don't _ever_ think I don't respect you. You're the most precious person on the _planet_ to me. Everything I've learned about you this past twenty-four hours has only made me come to respect you more. That you survived what you did and you're _still_ fighting the likes of Moriarty instead of joining the ranks beside him is nothing short of super-human. I've seen you be sensitive, I've seen you be kind, I've seen you protect those weaker than you – despite all that sociopath malarkey – and it's obvious to me now that you did that all on your own."

Sherlock was looking at him incredulously. "You don't think I'm a freak?" he breathed.

John couldn't help himself. He leaned over and grabbed the lanky younger man and pulled him close, tucking the dark crown under his chin and stroking his hair. "I think you're brilliant." he said into his hair. Sherlock convulsed with tears then. "And," he said, kissing his forehead then resting his chin back on his crown "no one is ever going to hurt a hair on your head again without going through _me_." He kissed the top of his head, trying not to notice the delicious smoky smell of his hair. He thought he heard a deep rumble of laughter somewhere down there. "None of it was your fault." John said reassuringly. "Not a bit of it. Your family was just screwed up." He paused. "Mycroft, he really didn't know?"

"No." Sherlock loosened himself out of John's grip to breathe. "I don't think he ever knew. We've never been particularly_ close_. Some part of Microft cares for me in a way but...he scares me a little. I was always worried he'd figure it out. And he – he also reminds me of Father. Looks more like him as he gets older." Sherlock's lip quivered.

"What about your mother?"  
"She knew." Sherlock said softly, avoiding John's wide-eyed stare. "She was jealous about it, actually. I think she was worried that Father wanted me more than he wanted her. Not that she was in love with him – Father was a cruel man, but aristocrats always have a taste for fine things, and she wanted to be thought of as the finest thing in the house. He collected art."

This made sense. John remembered a previous case solved because Sherlock recognized some artists' forged brushstroke. "Mother used to call me names like "Michelangelo's own _David_." or "Here comes Gainsborough's _Blue Boy_" in front of company. They sounded like compliments but I knew..."

John tried to shake off the desire to find this callous, selfish woman, lock her in the Holmes family mansion and hit it with an M72LAW.

"John," Sherlock began earnestly. "Do you think – my experiences – caused my homosexuality? Could they do that?"

"I don't know." John said. "I used to think we were all born into our sexualities, genetics and such, but now I think I believe sexuality is a little more fluid than that."

Sherlock suddenly caught his meaning. "You mean, you could still...?"  
"Love you? Of course. If anything I love you more." John said. "But it's a little weird for me – you're the only man I've ever even fancied."

Sherlock gave one of his small lopsided smiles. In a deep purring voice, he repeated "You fancy me?"

"You _know_ you look like a bloody Vogue runway model. And you _dress_ like one." John replied.  
He sighed, and took Sherlock's hand, this brilliant man so damaged and so desperate for approval.

"I think" he kissed the back of his hand to punctuate the thought "You're perfect."


	5. Chapter 5

That night John stayed in Sherlock's room, his chest pressed against Sherlock's smooth back, his arms wrapped protectively over slim shoulders. Sherlock apparently slept in something close to the foetal position, curled in on himself, and barely moved until he woke, shaking and murmuring in the early hours of the morning.

He sat up in fright.

Once John had petted and soothed him, Sherlock grimaced. "It's odd, I don't normally dream about it. In fact, I've been more upset about my childhood these last twenty-four hours than I have been in the last five years. I suppose it's something to do with surfacing suppressed memories?" he asked wearily.

John nodded.

"Ah. Then let me thank you _again_ for dredging my past up. And how exactly_ is_ turning my rational brain into an emotionally-clogged, sleep-deprived _sponge_ supposed to protect us from Moriarty?"  
Sherlock had the same wry and overbearingly smug tone he'd had yesterday but somehow now, John just found it endearing. He shrugged, unabashed and said "It had to be done. And anyway, Moriarty started all this off, not me."

Sherlock sat straighter up in bed, like a Meerkat listening for predators. "Oh. _Oh_."  
He jumped out, and began to pace. John sat up in bed too, and when Sherlock swept out into the living room, he sighed and got up to make tea.

He had that mad, distant look so John just left him be. He picked up an article on epigenetics he had been trying to catch up on and folded in his arm chair. Sherlock was pacing and muttering, trying to fathom a serial killer's next move. He still had the smoky smell of Sherlock's hair in his senses, and was up at four am reading. It felt strangely perfect. Domestic even.

A lot had changed for both of them in the last forty-eight hours, but this never would.

John smiled. He was pretty sure he wasn't actually gay, though he'd been prepared to give the idea serious consideration. He never fancied men on the street or noticed their abs or anything. There was just this _one _man he happened to love.

Two hours later, Sherlock plonked rather heavily in front of John, demanding his full attention.

"We need to have sexual intercourse."

John's eyebrows furrowed together and his spine stiffened. "What?"

Sherlock huffed like it was all very obvious. "_Moriarty_ was the catalyst for both my recovered memories and you and I becoming...closer. But which event was he trying to catalyse? Could he have known details of my childhood?"

"Only if he talked to Mycroft." John replied. "And I doubt even Microft Holmes chats sociably with serial killers."

Sherlock gave one of his rare, thin-lipped smiles at this. John was apparently still angry at what he perceived with his moral code to be Mycroft's failed duty of care. It was sort of sweet.

"Remember." Sherlock encouraged John, trying to stay on track "What he said at the pool."

John's brow puckered with one tiny crescent as he thought. "He said – this changes _everything_, there's a new game, and that I was the stakes." John shrugged. "I just thought he was threatening to kill me."

"He was." Sherlock said in an emotionless tone. "But he wanted to make the new game about us – about my unrequited feelings for you. The best way to counter his plans is simply to _requite_ them." there was dark amusement in his voice, but he seemed to loathe the prospect. It was like an item to be crossed off a shopping list. John mentally corrected himself. As though Sherlock ever did the shopping.

"Sherlock." John said patiently. "I'm not going to sleep with you on the whim of a serial-killer."

Sherlock was still crouching in front of him, but his back stiffened. "I see. I thought after last night...you'd be _amenable_ to the suggestion."

"Oh for God's sake." John reached out and grasped Sherlock's face in both hands and pressed his forehead against his. He realised he'd damaged Sherlock's very fragile ego. "It's not that. You _know_ I find you attractive and all that. But you must know what the medical name for your condition is."

"I don't _have_ a medical condition." Sherlock retorted, still surly. "But I assume you are in fact referring to your _own_ medical condition: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder."

"I am." John said. "You must have researched it when you first met me, you know the symptoms.

"Flashbacks." Sherlock said in a bored tone.  
"Avoidance of the original stimuli." John countered. "Difficult sleep patterns. Hyper-vigilance."

Sherlock shot him a scathing look. "You think my deductive skills come from my childhood trauma?"

John had to tread carefully here. He knew almost all of Sherlock's self-worth was tied up in his intellect. "No. You were always going to have a brilliant mind, Sherlock. But perhaps you channelled your energies into observation, at first, as a hyper-vigilant protective mechanism..."

Sherlock was speechless. He sank onto his knees on the floor. This had obviously never occurred to him. John sighed, got up and gently lifted Sherlock to his feet and sat him on the couch. Then he put an arm around him and leaned against him.  
Sherlock wasn't responding or moving of his own free will. John pressed a kiss to his temple.

"Well," Sherlock said after a long time, in his deep, throaty voice "How does one cure PTSD?"

"Often they don't." John admitted. "There are lots of cognitive therapies which teach negative pattern recognition and coping skills. One new cure being tested is to revisit the memories and try to process the emotions surrounding them. Another is reassociating the stimuli with something positive. Calming drugs, pleasant music, even video-games." John finished.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "So you cured _your_ PTSD by participating in the work with me."  
John blushed. "Well, yeah. I still get the occasional nightmare, but now, the sound of whizzing bullets doesn't mean I'm about to get shot in the desert, it means I am spending time with you."

Sherlock gave him a speculative look and laughed. John joined in, and they both got a little hysterical, until they wiped the tears from their eyes.

"The facts, then." Sherlock composed himself. "Moriarty plans to use you against me because he believes I suffer from repressed attraction to you. Meanwhile, I am experiencing such polarities of sentiment that I can barely form a cogent sentence, let alone maintain my usual habits of deductive reasoning, and according to what you have explained of PTSD, there's a chance I will never regain my focus unless I attempt a cure, which I can only do by facing the stimuli that triggered the trauma and creating more positive associations with it." he took a breath. "However, if your theory is correct, and hyper-vigilance is the root of my observations, there's also a chance that if I cure myself I will diminish my capacity for reason."

John nodded and laid a gentle hand on his knee.

Sherlock grimaced. "There's only one option then. We continue with my original plan. I have to face the stimuli. We have sex."

John frowned at him. "I've never had sex with a man, before, Sherlock. I'm not really sure what to do."  
"Simple. I'll revisit a memory, and describe it to you, and you re-enact it. Like cue-cards." Sherlock said.

John leaned back from him, aghast. "No," he said. "I won't do it. I_ can't_ do it. You can't expect me to re-enact your trauma, playing the part of the rapist. That's..._sick_."

Sherlock recoiled, as though John had hit him. "God, I don't mean _you're_ sick. It's just...you have to see why it would make me uncomfortable."

Sherlock looked at him searchingly. "What if I picked an earlier memory? One of the more..._gentle_ events, before I started resisting? I'm..._exhausted _John." tears made his voice gruff. "I can't take this constant assault to my senses, and if there's _any_ way to make it stop..."

He just looked so vulnerable. John wavered.

"Let me do some research into it." he said finally. "I'll find out what I can about the experimental conditions where this sort of cure is being tested." he shook his head, not sure whether or not to be disgusted with himself. Was he letting himself be talked into this because he wanted to take _advantage_ of Sherlock? He compared both sides of Sherlock – one overdeveloped – the smug and callous genius that he respected and criminals feared. The other vulnerable, childlike, and deep-feeling, always aloof and a little frightened. Sherlock deserved the chance to be as full and wonderful a human being as he would have been before his horrible family had thwarted him, John decided. He _would_ find a way to cure him.


	6. Chapter 6

John still couldn't believe he'd agreed to this. Any of it. Sherlock had argued that the most scientific way to face his trauma was to mimic the exact conditions. John was sure it from what he'd read on the subject that it couldn't be medically necessary for him to _act out_ the traumas as well as verbalise them, but approaching the whole thing like an experiment with standards was giving Sherlock back some control over what he'd been feeling. John didn't want to take that away from him.

So here they were, about to revisit the traumatic stimuli of the first time his father had penetrated him, in the hopes of writing over the top of those events, of associating sexual contact with more pleasant memories. John hoped fiercely that it worked.

"Father's room was always dark." Sherlock was saying. "Curtains drawn. We mostly did it in the day-time, so there would be a crack of light under the door." John went about setting up this scenario in Sherlock's bedroom. He turned to Sherlock:

"Do you want me to give you some anti-anxiety meds before we begin? They're recommended for this sort of procedure." John said.  
"No need." Sherlock pulled open a drawer in his dresser. It was packed full of pills.

"Of course." John said more to himself than to Sherlock "You've been self-medicating since the day I first met you." Sherlock shrugged and took some of his own pills, before setting his iPod dock to play Bach's _Partita for Solo Violin No.3 in E Major_. Quick, uplifting feather-strokes of violin music filled the room, evoking a charming pastoral feel. He turned down the volume so it didn't drown out either of their voices.

"Alright. You're sure you want to do this?"

Sherlock nodded, but even in the dim light John could see the liquid terror forming again in his eyes.  
"He would take off my clothes." Sherlock began. He sat on the edge of the bed.

John unbuttoned Sherlock's lavender shirt, barely knowing where to look while he engaged in this horrible parody. He saw how pale Sherlock's skin was, flawless alabaster except in the places he'd caught a blow from a rogue suspect's ring or knife. He wondered if any of these scars were his father's handiwork.

He slipped the shirt off his slim shoulders then tossed it onto a chair. John admired his bone structure, his pronounced clavicles and cheekbones, the slim musculature of his arms and abdomen. He had a line of dark, fine hair from his navel leading to his groin.  
"He would kneel for the belt and pants." Sherlock narrated.  
John felt Sherlock's quick gasp in as he fumbled with the belt. He looked up at Sherlock who was studiously avoiding his gaze. "How are you feeling?"  
"Aroused." Sherlock admitted. "It's confusing."  
John gave him a moment to process before unzipping his fly and undoing the trouser clasp. Sherlock's legs were long and muscled like a racehorse's, with the same fine dark hair on his thighs and shins. He had long, aristocratic feet and hands.

"Now what?"  
"I'd get into bed and he would undress." Sherlock said. John obliged, stripping to his underwear.  
"He's lie on top of me and kiss me."  
John swallowed. He got into bed beside Sherlock, unwilling to emulate such a dominant gesture. Instead, he cupped a hand around that precious porcelain face.  
"You're safe." he said. "You're safe and you are loved."  
Sherlock was lying on his back, stiff as a bean-pole from fear, but began to relax at these words. John lay on his side and put an arm out to draw Sherlock towards him, running a gentle hand down his chest and abdomen. He had no intention of taking this any further than necessary to get Sherlock to open up. He was a doctor, and although he was no psychologist, he still had a duty of care. There was no way he was going to fondle or penetrate him, whatever he had promised a demanding Sherlock earlier.

"He'd play with me through my knickers." Sherlock was recounting with a dead, cold voice. "He liked me to be erect – a sign of a willing participant I suppose." he gritted his teeth. "Sometimes I couldn't and he would use his mouth. He called them _kisses_. Sometimes he would insist that I _kiss_ him back." His heart was beating very quickly now, his pupils contracted. John stroked his hair, and Sherlock nuzzled into the gesture. He seemed to have forgotten that he had insisted John physically _do _all these terrible things to him; he was too lost in the memory. "When I was little, six or seven, he only used his fingers. But later..." Sherlock broke off. "He favoured Vaseline as lubricant." John winced, horrified that the perfect recall of his friend's amazing mind was being put to such uses. "Once, he got so engrossed he became _rough_ and I bled all over the bedsheets. He was so _angry_. How was he going to hide it from the maid?" Sherlock whispered this last bit and seemed to dissolve into sobs that wracked his body. John held him tightly as tears and hot breath soaked his own chest. As far as John was concerned, this experiment was over.

They lay in each other's arms for a while, listening to the soothing violin rills on repeat. Suddenly, Sherlock reached up and tilted John's face towards him. Tawny eyes filled with concern. Sherlock leaned up, hesitantly, and pressed his soft lips to John's. He closed his eyes and just seemed to breathe him in for a moment, then he turned his head to deepen the kiss. He had to lie on an angle across John's body to accomplish this, his hands reaching up to rake through John's sandy hair. Tentatively, John rested his left arm on the small of Sherlock's back, marvelling at how smooth his skin was. Sherlock pulled away so he could look John in the eyes.

"Are _you _okay? I thought all you army clods were nervous about anything other than a hetero-normative lifestyle." he smiled, kissing John's cheek.

"You get off on that a bit, don't you? " John smiled playfully "That I was in the army."  
"It increases the chance" Sherlock began to nibble his ear "that you've still got a _uniform_."  
John's tawny eyes widened at that while Sherlock gave a deep, throaty chuckle. "This" Sherlock said, planting kisses down the front of John's defined chest "feels so _different_. Every time I panic, I close my eyes and smell you, John, and I know I'm safe."  
John smiled as tears pricked his eyes, and he couldn't help but reach for the younger man. He just _had _to kiss Sherlock and lose himself in the kiss.

It curled Sherlock's toes.

"Really John." he said breathlessly. "Even _you_ should know that the olfactory sense is processed in region of the hippocampus associated with memory. It's no great surprise that your scent has such an effect."

John smiled at the touch of arrogance in his voice. _That_ was more like it.


	7. Chapter 7

They didn't go much beyond kissing or foreplay for a month or two, which suited both of them and allowed them to sound out what each of them was ready for. It was virgin territory for both of them.

Sherlock continued to bound along being arrogant on cases like an enormous greyhound, insulting Anderson and Donovan, although he was more polite and pleasant with LeStrade, who had only raised both eyebrows and run a hand over his peppered hair, watching the younger detective with something like quiet concern. Sherlock continued to insult John's intelligence at every turn, but instead of patiently enduring it, John seemed now to see the scorn as a particularly amusing private joke.

One day, just as Donovan had said something particularly cutting to Sherlock, John looked over from where he was quietly standing out of the way and said "Donovan, Anderson, do you think I could trouble you for a word in private?" The three of them looked to LeStrade for permission. The older man seemed taken aback but waved them away, turning to look over Sherlock's shoulder at their sprawled victim.

John was demure and pleasant as he walked with them into an alley out of earshot, but there was a hardness to him that neither Donovan nor Anderson had seen before. He turned to face them with a swiftness they hadn't seen before. They stopped short.

"It's easy to see why you don't like Sherlock." John began. "He's a pain. An unruly child with no regard for social niceties. What makes it worse is that he's so damned clever that he's able to get under people's skin, even trained professionals like yourselves. In your words..."  
"A freak. A psychopath." Donovan said, a little defensively.

John gave a curt nod. "Yes. And while some freaks are born that way, most are made. By circumstance...bullies." John said casually, as if he had no intention in the world of calling either of them a bully. "Under the uniforms, the daily mask we wear, we're all just big kids, aren't we?" John said airily, looking first at the floor and then back up into Donovan's eyes. "Did you ever think that calling him a freak might be making him worse? Pushing him towards whatever crime you're convinced he'll one day commit?"

He shifted his piercing military gaze towards Anderson now, who stopped and looked a tiny bit ashamed. "I don't know whether or not you can see it, but he's changed. He's really trying. He's been through more than you two have _ever _guessed" he said, noting the faintest flicker of sympathy in Donovan's eyes "and I" he said evenly "have made it my business to make sure _no one_ holds him back." it was kind and polite but the underlying threat was very clear. He smiled at each of them and then nodded back to the crime-scene. "Shall we?" he strolled away leaving Donovan and Anderson to exchange glances.

Sherlock was done and striding across the parking lot to the main street, already on the trail of a particularly obscure artists' resin found on the body. John caught up and matched his stride.

Sherlock didn't look at him but smiled to himself as they walked. "Did you just give them the passive-aggressive superior officer dress-down?"

John smiled too. "I might have."

Sherlock turned away, scanning for a cab in an effort to hide his grin.

LeStrade rejoined Donovan and Anderson who were watching the pair walk off together up the street. "What was that about?" he asked them.

"Oh you know Sir." Donovan responded after a long moment. "The whole protective boyfriend bit."


End file.
